Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ I Dare You To Move ❯ I Dare You To Move ( Chapter 1 )
[ A - All Readers ]
By: ShoukyoToSakujou 
See story summary
Non Anime: Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Psychological / | Type: Songfic | Uploaded On: 01.17.2005 | Pages: 1 | Words: 474 | Visits: 442 | Status: Completed
See story summary
Non Anime: Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Psychological / | Type: Songfic | Uploaded On: 01.17.2005 | Pages: 1 | Words: 474 | Visits: 442 | Status: Completed
/Today is all you've got now, and today is all you'll ever have./
/I dare you to move, I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor/
/I dare you to move, like today never happened before./
/Maybe redemption and stories to tell/
/Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell/
/Where can you run to escape from yourself?/
/Where are you gonna go? Salvation is here./
It took his own death to make him realize that things weren't as simple as they seemed.
That life and love and happiness couldn't be taken for granted, that one had to appreciate them as they were for them to be of any value, was something he'd known. He'd felt it in his arms and legs and at the tip of each finger and toe. The knowledge had thrummed through him, and while he was far from the most open and easily moved of boys, even in childhood, he'd lived and loved with little abandon.
All that changed when he died and was revived.
Suddenly, the arms and legs and fingers and toes he'd felt through were half gone, his left side replaced by machina and bitter, broken dreams. He lay in bed for the better part of two months, moping over his own death, and the death of his comrades, his friends. The ones who were alive avoided his bedside; being near him was just too depressing. They had survived, had gone on to their wives and lovers and families.
He was left behind. Left to stew in his own juices, to become a dish far too bitter to take. Until she came.
He'd woken up one morning to find her leaning against the doorjamb of his room, silver-brown hair in her crimson eyes, looking less than amused or approving of his state. Slowly, with a scathing tongue, she had berated him, told him he was nothing like the boy she'd known, the boy who'd lived a few doors down, who had been too serious to play but not too serious to be out and about, talking to his neighbors.
'But', he tried to excuse himself, 'they're dead. I'm dead.'
She didn't accept that excuse. 'You're only dead if you choose to be. I dare you to get up, to live your life, to feel the pain we all do. Stop being a coward.'
Then she had turned on her heel and stalked off. The next day, his brothers were stunned to see him sitting up, reading, flexing his machine limbs.
Two weeks later, they were shocked to see him outside.
And she was smiling as best she could, beside him, guiding him as she had before.
/I dare you to move, I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor/
/I dare you to move, like today never happened before./
/Maybe redemption and stories to tell/
/Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell/
/Where can you run to escape from yourself?/
/Where are you gonna go? Salvation is here./
It took his own death to make him realize that things weren't as simple as they seemed.
That life and love and happiness couldn't be taken for granted, that one had to appreciate them as they were for them to be of any value, was something he'd known. He'd felt it in his arms and legs and at the tip of each finger and toe. The knowledge had thrummed through him, and while he was far from the most open and easily moved of boys, even in childhood, he'd lived and loved with little abandon.
All that changed when he died and was revived.
Suddenly, the arms and legs and fingers and toes he'd felt through were half gone, his left side replaced by machina and bitter, broken dreams. He lay in bed for the better part of two months, moping over his own death, and the death of his comrades, his friends. The ones who were alive avoided his bedside; being near him was just too depressing. They had survived, had gone on to their wives and lovers and families.
He was left behind. Left to stew in his own juices, to become a dish far too bitter to take. Until she came.
He'd woken up one morning to find her leaning against the doorjamb of his room, silver-brown hair in her crimson eyes, looking less than amused or approving of his state. Slowly, with a scathing tongue, she had berated him, told him he was nothing like the boy she'd known, the boy who'd lived a few doors down, who had been too serious to play but not too serious to be out and about, talking to his neighbors.
'But', he tried to excuse himself, 'they're dead. I'm dead.'
She didn't accept that excuse. 'You're only dead if you choose to be. I dare you to get up, to live your life, to feel the pain we all do. Stop being a coward.'
Then she had turned on her heel and stalked off. The next day, his brothers were stunned to see him sitting up, reading, flexing his machine limbs.
Two weeks later, they were shocked to see him outside.
And she was smiling as best she could, beside him, guiding him as she had before.